Not This, Not That ~ THE REFUGEE CAMP
That
brief visit was enough for me to decide to go to stay
there; I told Thich Thong Hai (the monk’s
name), “Let me round off my work in Manila,
and I’ll come.” By the end of March, I
was in PRPC to stay, not realizing I’d stay
long-term. Thong Hai had arrived there from another
camp in Malaysia ~ Pulau Bidong, near Kuala Trengganu
~ and before being taken to Bataan, had agreed to
stay for two years until resettled in the US. After
a while, he got people to help him build a temple
at the top end of the Camp, and they went to the jungle
nearby to cut trees and bamboo; before long the temple
was in use.
The First Temple in the Camp
While they were doing this, other people helped
me build a small hut beside a waterfall in the jungle;
it was peaceful and pleasant, but impossible to stay
there once the monsoon began, so I had to move back
to the Camp, and a bigger hut was constructed for
me beside the temple. It was to remain my abode throughout
most of my stay there.
Imagine Thong Hai’s surprise ~ and mine!
~ when, less than six months after he got there, he
was informed that he would be among the first batch
to leave, on the 1st of July; he hadn’t long
to prepare, and was soon on his way, but only after
requesting me to stay and take care of the temple
he’d set up. I never imag-ined I would stay
there almost 4 years.
My main purpose in going to stay there and in remaining
so long had to do with the suffering of the refugees.
Having realized that Suffering is the First and
Foremost Teacher ~ Guru Dukkha ~ on
the Way, I felt an attempt should be made
to show some of them how it can be turned around and
something gained, otherwise, it would be an even greater
tragedy than the suffering itself. This was, and still
is my main purpose. The Buddha is not our First
Teacher but the Second. Suffering is the
First Teacher, because without Suffering, nobody would
be interested in the Buddha’s Teachings about
how to deal with and overcome Suffering.
Christian missionaries were soon hard at work there,
and many refugees were induced, by fair means and
foul, to change their religion. I protested, not because
I’m against people changing their religion,
but because they were pressured and bribed into converting.
I didn’t blame the refugees for changing, but
held the missionaries reprehensible for using whatever
means they could devise to convert these poor, suffering
and trusting unfortunates, many of whom had little
left to call their own except the tradi-tional religion
of their ancestors; it was cruel, calculating and
ruthless of the missionaries to exploit them in this
way. Sure, I know many Buddhists understand little
or nothing about Bud-dhism, and that one name ~ Christian
~ is just as good as an-other ~ Buddhist
~ but still, that is no reason to pressure them to
convert; these people risked everything to be free,
and should have been left alone to choose for themselves
something as personal as religion. I had little choice
but to oppose such proselytisation, and encourage
the Buddhists to keep their religion, and most of
my talks in the Camps were given for this purpose.
How much success I had in this, no-one could say;
perhaps very little, if any. On the other hand, no-one
could say what would have happened had I not exhorted
people as I did. My words were seeds, freely scattered,
in the hope that some of them ~ a tiny proportion,
perhaps ~ would grow. Have any grown so far? That
is not for me to say, but I like to think that some
have.
Apart from the Vietnamese, who had been brought here
from Camps in other countries, like Malaysia, Hong
Kong, Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia and Macau, there
were many Cambodians and Laotians from Camps in Thailand.
As more refugees came in, it was necessary to construct
more accommodation for them, and Phase Two
came into being, with four new neighborhoods, making
ten from the original six. The three groups were housed
separately in barracks in these neighborhoods; each
neighbor-hood had thirty barracks, each barrack ten
billets, and each billet was meant for at least six
people; so, at maximum capacity, the Camp held 18,000
refugees, most of whom considered them-selves Buddhists.
As time passed, whenever people died, they were buried
in a plot of land off to one side; this became known
by the refugees as Neighborhood Eleven. During
the time I was in the Camp, over a hundred people
were buried there.
As one batch of refugees left, others came to take
their places; there were so many in other Camps in
the region. Countries like US, Canada, Australia,
France, Germany, Norway, and so on, were still taking
in large numbers of refugees; ‘compassion-fatigue’
was not to set in until some years later.
I became friends with someone named Trinh De,
who was teaching English in order to earn a little
money; he was the eld-est of 5 brothers, and because
some Vietnamese names appear not so good to non-Vietnamese,
I soon gave them English names, so De became Paul,
and his brothers, Simon, Charles, Julius and Robert.
Anyway, they helped me a lot, and sadly for me, they
were among the second batch to leave for the US. I
accompanied them on the bus to Manila airport, where
they had to wait for some hours in a large hall for
their flight out. A Flying Tigers (the CIA
airline) plane had been chartered especially for them,
as they were so many, and when it was ready, they
all trooped out to it, leaving me behind, feeling
solitary and lonely. I waited until the plane took
off, my right hand raised in benedic-tion, and then
left the airport to return to the temple. It was still
dark as I walked down the road to get a taxi about
4 o’clock, and the words of an old song ran
through my mind:
“In the early morning rain,
With a dollar in my hand,
And an aching in my heart,
And my pockets full of sand.”
Left in charge, I became increasingly aware of the
depredations of the missionaries, some of whom ~ and
there were so many, of different sects, all doing
their utmost to ‘catch fish’ ~ were spreading
the rumor that since America was a Christian country,
and the people sponsoring the refugees were Christians,
they should change their religion; they used many
other tactics to achieve the same end; after all,
they’d had centuries of practice at this, but
could no longer do it at the point of a sword! I could
not just let this happen, and so, discussing the matter
with vari-ous people of the three ethnic groups ~
including several Lao monks who were there, and a
Vietnamese monk who had just arrived ~ we agreed to
hold a festival, and use it to elect a joint Buddhist
committee, in order to put on a united front.
I enlisted the support of Buddhists from Manila for
this, and many of them came out for the event. Lots
of food was prepared and everyone ate. I gave a long
talk about the situation, trans-lated into the three
languages, after which, we elected the com-mittee,
comprising members from each group; and, because I
wasn’t of any of these groups, they elected
me president. After-wards, the Cambodian committee-members
came to me and asked if it would be alright to offer
a small sum of money to the monks for participating
in the festival; I said yes, as long as the nuns were
offered the same amount (there were several white-robed
Cambodian nuns, you see). They objected to this, saying
it wasn’t their tradition to offer money to
nuns, but I countered this by saying that these nuns
had left their homes and families just like the monks,
and were living similar lives, and that since traditions
start somewhere, we could start a new one that day.
They went away to discuss this, and then came back
to tell me they agreed. I believe in treating people
fairly and equally, I told them, even though there
is no such thing as equality in nature, but only variety
and difference; we should try to treat others as we
would like them to treat us.
I settled down to life there, doing what I could,
and sometimes standing up to the authorities on behalf
of the refugees, who were afraid to speak for themselves
in case it jeopardized their resettlement; the threat
of this was one way the authorities used to enforce
order, but with limited success. Soon, there were
various scams going on. Wherever there were opportunities
to get more than they otherwise would have done, there
was no shortage of takers. Some refugee-volunteers
in the food-distribution centers soon had more than
their fair share. And those in the Camp post-office
were unable to keep their hands off their fellows’
mail. Large numbers of letters would disappear, later
to be found in the forest or the stream near the Camp,
de-void of any checks or cash they had contained.
People lost not only money that way, but also important
documents they had been waiting for. And over the
time I was there, I lost at least $1,200
that I knew of ~ money that had been sent for temple-purposes
or for personal use. It was really a big problem,
and I felt sure it was an organized racket. My ears
were always open for tales of who might be responsible,
and indeed, I did manage to have several
refugees apprehended for it. But there was little
I could do about the Filipino post-office staff, some
of whom must have become very wealthy from working
there. They knew I was watching them, and once, when
I went to the post-office, I read the lips of one
of them as she said to another: “Abhinyana!”
One girl who worked in the post-office often came
to the temple to stand in front of the Buddha-image
silently moving her lips in fervent prayer. After
she left, someone told me that she had helped herself
to the contents of many letters. No wonder she felt
the need to pray so much!
There were always people staying in the temple to
help with the work there, as it was a big area, and
much had to be done. They were usually young men,
mostly Vietnamese, but also some Cambodians; they
had to be vegetarians while there, as we had no meat
or fish ~ not dead fish, anyway; there were
live ones in the pond that had been built,
but they were not for food. As some of these unpaid
volunteers left, others came to take their places,
and at times, we had as many as ten or twelve. I didn’t
just tell them what to do, but set an example by working
myself ~ building, cleaning, gardening, etc.; the
temple became perhaps the most beautiful place in
the whole Camp.
At the end of 1980, the Camp Admin suggested I set
up another temple at the lower end of the long and
narrow Camp, for the convenience of the Buddhists
there; it was a walk of about 40 minutes from bottom
to top. I agreed, and with support from the Buddhists
of Manila, was able to build a small temple in quite
a pleasant spot, with a lovely grove of mango-trees,
and behind, a beautiful vista of the mountains, forest
and stream running be-low. It was years before I actually
stayed at that temple, but I used to go there regularly
to give talks.
At this time I met Tomas Pabiloña,
a devout ~ and sometimes, too devout ~ Buddhist
in Manila, and gave him some relics; he was very happy
with these and said he’d just been wondering
how he might obtain some. He was a qualified engineer
but ran a hardware-store with his wife, Avelina
~ a quiet, self-effacing lady. They would help me
very much over the next few years.
For some reason I never understood, the Admin decided
to move the Vietnamese from near the temple to make
room for Cambodians. Now, the Vietnamese had been
there almost a year, and some had created small gardens,
so weren’t happy to have to relocate, but had
no choice. About their gardens, how-ever, they did,
and some, thinking that if they couldn’t
have them, no-one else would, pulled up the flowers
and vegetables they’d planted, and cut down
the papaya-trees and bananas, not stopping to think
how we depend upon others for almost every-thing,
including the food we eat; it was planted by others,
not by us. We all eat others’ food, wear others’
clothes, live in others’ houses, use things
made by others. We sit in the shade of trees, unaware
that they were probably planted by someone long ago,
someone whose identity we can only guess at; why don’t
we plant trees, so that others later on ~ others we
don’t and cannot know ~ may enjoy their shade
and fruit after we’ve moved on?
The place from which the refugees left the Camp by
bus for re-settlement was known as the ‘departure-area,’
not far from the temple, and there was a long straight
path leading down to it. I sometimes went to see people
off, then return to the temple by this path, which
I thought of as the Via Dolorosa, after the
route that Jesus was forced to take on his way to
be crucified in Jerusalem; my heart was often heavy
as I returned to the temple.
One time, I met a young man at that area; I’d
not known him before, but he said to me, “I
have been here for seven months, and the only thing
I could think of was the day of my departure. Now
that day is here, but I’m sad and don’t
want to go, because I see that the hills around the
Camp are green!” Imagine that! The hills around
the Camp had not become green just on that day, especially
for him; they’d been green for a long time,
but he’d not no-ticed them because he was thinking
of other things ~ looking, but not seeing! This is
not uncommon; in fact, most of us do this very thing,
and are seldom aware of what is right in front of
us!
The Camp was in a beautiful setting, with rolling,
grassy hills on two sides, a stream running through
the forest on another, and the ocean some distance
away on the fourth. Some refugees couldn’t resist
the temptation to set fire to the grass, and the hills
would go up in flames! This took place every dry-season,
even though the Camp authorities had had the hillsides
planted with saplings. No-one was ever caught and
punished for this.
There was a stockade for the incarceration of miscreants,
and it soon became known as ‘The Monkey
House’. I became aware of it at the end
of 1980 because of a boy named Nghia. He
had a mental problem, and was forever up to some mischief
~ stealing from the camp-market, setting fire to his
billet, and so on. He would be locked up in the Monkey-House,
but Houdini-like, would always escape. Late
one night, when I’d already gone to bed, I heard
gun-shots nearby, so went out to look. At the temple
gateway were some Filipino marines (a small de-tachment
of them was stationed in the Camp to maintain order),
grappling with Nghia, who had in his hand a papaya-leaf,
with which he was hitting the marines over their heads!
It looked so funny, but I said, “What’s
going on here?” and they said some-thing about
him making trouble somewhere. Now, no-one had ever
been able to do anything with him except me; for some
reason, he would listen to me, so I asked them to
turn him over to me. I then gave him a place to sleep,
and the next day as-signed him some jobs, like sweeping
the temple-floor. He was alright when I was around,
and if he got a bit out of hand, I had only to look
at him over my glasses and say, “Nghia!”
and he would become quiet. But he was incorrigible,
and no sooner did I turn my back than he’d get
up to mischief again. Once, when I returned from a
few days in Manila, I found that he’d taken
some of my clothes and gone around the camp wearing
them, and because of this, he became known as ‘The
Mad Monk’! There were many other incidents,
but eventually he was resettled in New Zealand. I
had no idea we would meet again one day.
The Admin was headed by Army personnel, the boss being
a General Tobias who came out from Manila
every week for what was known as the ‘Inter-Agency
Meeting’. Under him were sev-eral ex-Colonels,
one of whom, Col. Banzon, was alright with me, but
another ~ Col. Ouzon ~ wasn’t, as I’d
had a bit of a run-in with him over something or other.
In ’82, he saw an opportu-nity to get back at
me. Two monks arrived from VRC, and not knowing that
they should register for billet-allocation and food-supplies,
they were brought straight up to the temple by other
refugees to stay with me. The next day, when I was
down at the other temple on my bicycle, someone said
to me, in a state of consternation, “Come
quick! Two monks in the Monkey House!”
“What?” I said, “Monks
in the Monkey House? How can this be?”
and quickly rode off there to find that it was so.
They told me Col. Ouzon had come looking for them
and arrested them. I went to see him and asked him
why he’d done that. “Because they broke
the rules,” he said.
“How long do you intend to keep them there?”
I asked.
“A few days,” he said. “In that
case then, you’ll have to keep me there, too,
as I’ll camp outside until you let them go!”
Fearful, maybe, of a demonstration in favor of the
monks, he had to back down and release them, and I
said to him, “Now you can give me a van to take
us back up to the temple!” He did, too.
Not having been given permission to stay in the Camp,
I was there unofficially. I’d applied, soon
after moving there, but was never told personally
that I was cleared; someone who worked in the Admin
building later told me he’d heard it coming
over on the radio-link from Manila (there was no phone-link
at that time). I became a bit of a thorn-in-the-flesh,
and they didn’t know what to do with me as I
had no boss who they could complain to; unlike other
foreign personnel in the Camp who worked for vari-ous
agencies, my position was unique, and I exploited
it; I could get away with things that others would
not have been allowed to.
The Buddhist committee was as ephemeral as the life
of a but-terfly, because as the members left, it was
very hard to replace them, and few people cared enough
anyway. Soon, therefore, it fell apart, and it was
left to me to take care of everything, and this was
not easy, especially as some of the Cambodians began
to ask for a temple of their own where the Vietnamese
couldn’t go. I made it clear that the temples
were Buddhist temples, not Vietnamese, Cambodian,
Chinese or whatever, and were open to everyone, Buddhists
and non-Buddhists alike, and while I was in charge,
they would remain so. They could use them on equal
terms as the Vietnamese, but they couldn’t have
one for them-selves, I said. What an unenviable position
I was in, caught be-tween the two communities. The
Vietnamese never said things like that ~ at least,
I never heard of it, and they would have known my
response if they’d said it.
I was closer to the Vietnamese because of my vegetarianism
and other things (Vietnam had been more fortunate
than Cam-bodia, in receiving the 3 streams of Buddhism,
Confucianism and Taoism from China, whereas Cambodia
had had only Theravada Buddhism and some Hindu influence
from India). Because of this, some Cambodians were
quick to say I favored the Vietnamese. Whenever I
had used-clothes from Manila to distribute, they accused
me of giving the best to the Vietnam-ese. Well, I
did first give such clothes to my temple-volunteers,
but that was only natural. Later, I tried to prevent
such com-plaints by dividing clothes into three piles
on the floor of the tem-ple, calling representatives
of the three groups, and saying to the Cambodians:
“You choose first.” They then had the
task of distributing them to their people rather than
me; I wondered how impartial they were in this.
Of course, it’s impossible to please everyone,
and one day, a Vietnamese came to the temple and said:
“I’d like some clothes, please. You didn’t
give me any last week, and I’m a Buddhist. You
gave some to Christians instead!” I was astonished.
“Look,” I said, “there are 18,000
people in this Camp, and I don’t have clothes
for more than a few; moreover, I don’t know
everyone here, and don’t discriminate like that
anyway!”
Because we were short of so many things in the Camp,
now and then I would bring empty oil-cans from Seng
Guan See to use for carrying water, and partly-burnt
candles, of which there were so many. When Sui Kim
came to know of this, however, he told me not to do
it, as they needed them there. Yes, I thought, just
like they needed the left-over food.
Needless to say, it wasn’t easy to maintain
the Camp, and sadly, many refugees were content to
sit back waiting for their reset-tlement and let others
do the work. It was necessary to institute a ‘Work-Credit
System’, and each adult refugee was required
to do some kind of work for two hours each day; for
this, they were awarded points, and only if they had
enough points by the time their basic English course
and medical exams were complete, were they allowed
to leave. Volunteers in the temples could get their
points for working there, and I had to sign their
work-sheets. Monks were also supposed to work, and
there were jobs they could have done, but some of
them were reluctant, consid-ering it beneath their
dignity. One Vietnamese Theravada monk, staying at
the lower temple, refused to do anything, although
I told him I wouldn’t sign his paper when it
was time to leave. He disregarded me. The months passed,
and his English-course was over, so he needed his
work-paper signed. I told him he did not qualify for
points as he’d done no work. He almost wept,
but I reminded him of what I’d told him earlier,
and refused to sign. One day, before dawn, I was upstairs
in my kuti and heard the sound of sweeping outside;
thinking this odd, I went out to see who was working
in the dark. It was this monk, trying to shame me
into signing. “Come on, give me the paper.”
I said. “Now go!” as I signed it. He didn’t
last long in America before he disrobed.
Every two or three weeks, I went to Manila for a few
days, and before going, would open the donation-boxes
in the temples and take any money to help towards
buying whatever supplies we needed. One time, opening
the box in the lower temple where there was another
monk in residence, I found only a single coin, so
thought it wasn’t worth taking. Upon my return,
I opened the box again, expecting to find at least
one peso there, but there was not even that! I knew
that someone had been stealing from the box, and found
out that it was the monk, who’d been sending
someone to get it at night and bring it over to his
kuti, where he used a wire to hook the money out through
the slot. When I con-fronted him about this, he made
the excuse that he’d been sick, and a lady had
come to the temple to offer him money for medi-cine
while he was out, so had put it in the box!
At the same time, a man by the name of Duong Van
Qui became active in the temple, and formed the
idea of getting hold of the temple funds, unaware
there were no funds. I was told he’d been saying
that the temple should be under the control of Viet-namese
rather than an English monk. He had wormed his way
into some petty position with Col. Banzon, and using
his imagi-nary power thereof, informed people he’d
be able to help if they had any problems. But it was
a scam, and to thwart him, I put a notice next to
the donation-box exhorting people to put any com-plaints
they had ~ in writing, with or without their names
if they wished ~ into the box, so I could read them
and maybe do something for them. Soon after, there
was a note from a woman saying that Qui, knowing she
had a problem regarding resettle-ment, had approached
her and told her he would help her if she paid him
some money! I had him! I informed Col. Banzon about
him, and he was dismissed. I told him to keep out
of the temple.
Now, it wasn’t uncommon for people to brand
others ‘communist’ if they took a dislike
to them, and this was the worst thing they could do,
as it was useless for the person so branded to deny
it. Once, someone came to inform me that another man
who frequented the temple was a communist, and asked
me to ban him from coming. “Look,” I said,
“the temple has a gateway but no gate. It means
it is open to anyone, and I cannot keep people out
unless and until they make trouble.”
The refugees were sometimes given ‘gifts’
bearing names and slogans such as “Jesus
Loves You,” “International Christian
Aid,” “Jesus Care For You,”
making it clear where they’d come from and leaving
them feeling obligated, just as intended; there were
strings attached. Once, I had a small consignment
of bars of soap and cans of milk from Manila for distribution
and, to avoid the missionaries’ tactics, I sent
my Vietnamese volunteers to the Cambodians and Cambodian
volunteers to the Vietnam-ese, to hand out the stuff
to them, and if anyone were to ask where it came from,
tell them it wasn’t important. If I’d
sent the Vietnamese to the Vietnamese, and the Cambodians
to the Cambodians, they would have given it to their
friends. They set off with their boxes, but before
long, several Filipino marines came to the temple
with my Vietnamese volunteers and some Cambodians.
The Cambodians couldn’t understand why anyone
~ especially Vietnamese ~ would give them anonymous
gifts, so used were they to getting things with labels.
“Look,” I said, “This is simply
soap and milk; not Buddhist or Christian, but just
soap and milk, but if you don’t want it, of
course, you won’t get it,” and I took
it back. It was very hard to be fair with these people.
Life is like a play, in which we are all actors, with
the script writ-ten as we act, not before, and no-one
knows what will happen next. In 1975, one of the most
murderous regimes the world has ever known took control
of Cambodia, and this once-gentle land became a slaughter-house,
with more than two million people murdered or dying
of starvation or disease. The killing would probably
have gone on unabated if the armies of Vietnam hadn’t
attacked in 1978 and taken over, driving Pol Pot
and his demons into the jungles or over the Thai border,
thus saving the remain-ing Cambodians. I met few who
saw it this way, however, but many who hated the Vietnamese
for invading their country. Ironically, had it not
been for the Vietnamese ~ and the Vietnamese communists,
at that ~ few of these people would have survived;
they owed their lives, therefore, to the Vietnamese.
Which is better: to be dead in one’s own country,
which had be-come a charnel-ground, or to be alive
and free in another? There was ~ and still is ~ an
hereditary hatred going back centu-ries on the part
of the Cambodians as a people towards the Viet-namese;
being neighbors, conflict between them was endemic.
It’s hard to get such hatred out of the national
psyche; insight is reached by the individual, never
by groups.
Once, a middle-aged Cambodian lady came to see me;
edu-cated, intelligent, cultured and refined, she
told me, in her bro-ken English, how she was the sole
survivor of her family in Cambodia during the reign
of the Khmer Rouge; her parents, siblings, and her
children had all perished; her husband had died of
starvation with his head on her lap! She was crying
as she told me these things, of course, and I listened,
without interrupting; it was important to tell her
story and be heard. “I lost everything,”
she sobbed. When she’d said all she wanted to
say, I spoke to her as gently as I could and told
her that she’d not lost everything, and that
much might yet be won; I forget my words to her, but
explained how few come to Dharma except through dukkha,
and how pain leads to compassion. As I spoke, I saw
a wonderful transformation come upon her face; I’d
never seen anything like it before ~ it was like a
light shining outwards through her skin ~ and I knew
she’d understood, but didn’t know how
deeply until she came again just before she left the
Camp for the US, and she said to me: “Abhinyana,
before I leave here, I want to tell you that what
you said to me that day was sweeter to me than had
been the love of my husband when we were first married.”
Imagine that! It was the best compliment anyone has
ever paid me, and has been one of the things that
have kept me going all these years. Her name was Ping
Kim Suor. But this is not the end of her story.
More about her later.
In ’81, I received a letter requesting me to
visit the smaller Camp on Palawan island in the south,
for the opening-ceremony of the renovated temple there,
so I got a plane-ticket and went. Temple committee-members
met me at the airport, and took me to the Camp (indeed,
the Camp was situated right beside the airport-runway,
and people used to walk and exercise there when there
were no planes landing or taking-off; there was only
one plane each day, anyway. On another side was the
sea). There was a simple room for me at the temple,
but at that time there wasn’t a toilet in the
temple, and no-one showed me where to go, and the
Camp toilet-blocks were too bad to be considered,
so I spent an uncomfortable five days there, really
needing to go. Apart from that, my visit was quite
a success, and the talks I gave were well-attended;
I was the only Western monk they’d ever seen,
so I had attraction-value. People who were in that
Camp at one time or another may recall the scene of
the talks out in front of the temple there, in the
open air, with the moon and stars shin-ing down through
the coconut-palms, the scent of the frangipani trees,
and the sound of the surf in the background.
This Camp was a camp of first-asylum ~ that is, for
refugees who had arrived in the Phils directly from
Vietnam; no matter whereabouts in the Philippines
they landed, they were brought here. It was known
as VRC ~ Vietnamese Refugee Center.
Several Brits were teaching English in the Camp at
that time ~ Muriel Knox (a Scot), Marion Lynch, Tony
and Leslie. I got on al-right with Knoxey,
and kept in touch with her for some years, but she
wasn’t the best correspondent, and we eventually
lost touch (strangely enough, we’d almost met
in England before my first trip overseas in ’65;
several times, out of curiosity, I joined the meetings
of an organization called Moral Rearmament
in a town some 5 miles from my home, and it appeared
she also attended meetings at the same place, around
the same time, though what she was doing in that area,
I don’t know). Marion later married a refugee
she met in VRC, and now lives in the US. Tony also
married a girl he met there, and the last I heard
of him he was in Holland. When these people left the
Camp, they were replaced by other British volunteers;
they were given a stipend in place of a salary, but
it was barely enough to live on; they were there from
commitment, out of the goodness of their hearts.
I was to visit VRC a total of ten times between 1981
and 1987, and stay for periods varying from the five
days of my initial visit to two months later on. The
population was less constant than in Bataan; in ’81,
if I remember aright, it was about 5000, but by ’84,
maybe only 2000. Some people spent up to five years
there, waiting to be accepted for resettlement in
other countries; with-out relatives elsewhere, or
people willing to sponsor them, it was hard for them
to get out. Then, like in Bataan and other Camps,
there were an inevitable number of deaths; corpses
were either buried in a local cemetery or cremated.
Sometimes, walking through the Camp, I would be struck
by a sense of the terrible suffering of the refugees,
and my legs felt so heavy that I could hardly move
and had to sit down some-where ~ it didn’t matter
where, or if there were people and noise all around
~ and my mind automatically became calm and clear.
Indeed, suffering is the gate to the Way, and few
people come to it in any other way. Writing of it
now, I got a thought-shiver.
Not all in PRPC were refugees; some left Vietnam on
what was called the Orderly-Departure Program;
Somehow, having ob-tained clearance, probably by large
bribes, they were allowed to fly out. I became close
to one family who’d come in this way, as they
were devout Buddhists and very supportive of the temple.
They’d arrived via Bangkok, but there was some
problem about their resettlement in the US. They had
a son in Canada, but had not disclosed this, as they
wanted to go to California, and the US officials discovered
this, and put them on hold. For three years, they
were kept in a state of uncertainty, running a small
business in the camp market to earn a bit of money.
The man’s name was Dong, his wife’s Phuong,
and their children ~ two girls and a boy ~ Thi, Yen
and Kien. Eventually, they were told they would be
allowed to go, but only if Dong and Phuong made an
effort to learn more English, which they did. I called
Phuong Chi, or elder sister, as per the Vietnamese
custom, so Chi Phuong.
I experienced several earthquakes while I was in Philippines,
one when I was in Seng Guan See, when the temple began
to sway in what was to me an alarming way, but was
nothing out of the ordinary there. Another time, I
was on the toilet in PRPC when there came quite a
strong tremor, and I was concerned that the concrete
slab over the pit below might crumble and send me
plunging down to a place I really didn’t want
to go!
At the end of 1981, Sui Kim asked me to attend an
International Sangha Conference in Taiwan
as part of the Philippines delega-tion, the temple
covering the costs. I had a two weeks’ break
from Bataan therefore. In Taipei, we were taken to
The Grand Hotel ~ one of the top hotels in
the world at that time ~ where we were to stay and
the conference to be held. I thought I’d died
and gone to heaven! Monks from many countries came,
and we were well-treated. With robes of various colors,
fabrics and de-signs, it was like a fashion-show.
Having noticed me wearing what he must have thought
was a too-old robe merely because it was a bit patched,
a Thai monk came up to me and presented me with a
new one. I thanked him, but didn’t wear it there
and then, as I don’t like new clothes, all stiff
and shiny, so continued to wear my old robe; it was
clean, even if it was patched.
An enormous amount of money must have been spent,
as no expense was spared. But I wasn’t very
impressed and couldn’t see what came of it.
To entertain us, we were taken to various museums
and temples in and around Taipei, and even as far
as Kaoh-Siung in the south, where there is
a huge temple, the head-quarters of Fo Guang Shan
(Buddha’s Light Mountain), the founder-abbot
of which ~ Venerable Hsing Yun ~ is incredibly
talented, and has established branch-temples all over
the world; we were served so graciously there.
When the conference convened, every monk was introduced
as ‘Venerable ……’ regardless
of rank or years of ordination. It was outstanding,
therefore when a senior Vietnamese monk from Canada
arrived late and had himself introduced as ‘The
Most Venerable ……’. I felt
embarrassed for him! I have never been to another
such conference.
One day, an old lady had seen a monkey for sale in
the market and, knowing that some people liked to
eat monkeys, spent some of her no-doubt limited funds
to buy it and bring it to the temple where she knew
no-one would kill it, and offered it to me. When I
saw it, however, I put my head against the door-post,
because when it had been trapped in the forest, its
right hand had been cut off, and the stump was bloody
and swollen, with two bones protruding from the wrist.
I was sad to think that some refugee, who had fled
his country in search of peace and happi-ness, had
gone to the forest to trap monkeys, never thinking
for a moment that these animals also had families
and friends and wished to be free and happy, just
like him; the money he got for his victim ~ a few
pesos ~ would soon be spent; but the results of his
callousness would go on for a long time. When we are
suf-fering or in danger we pray for help and make
promises, but it is often too late and the pain must
run its course. If we wish to avoid suffering, we
should consider the causes, more than the effects.
Most suffering is self-caused, and so we are able
to do something about it. To pray for release from
pain if we have sown the seeds of it won’t have
much effect.
I thanked and praised the old lady and tied the monkey
up be-hind the temple and gave it food and water,
then I went to look for someone to treat its wound,
but found no-one. Feeling it use-less to apply ointment
and bandage (as it would only have pulled it off),
I left it, not knowing what to do and thinking it
would soon die. When I went to see it two days later,
however, I was surprised to see only one bone sticking
out of its wrist! How it had broken the other off,
I don’t know, but several days after this, the
second bone was also broken off, and the flesh and
skin began to grow around the wound until it was completely
healed, without any infection! “Wonderful!”
I thought; “I spent years in school, studied
various things, learned something and traveled widely,
but with all my knowledge, I didn’t know what
to do. This monkey didn’t know anything about
First-Aid, because monkeys don’t, but somehow,
it knew what to do to save its life. Surely, there’s
a lesson in this for me. Perhaps we listen too much
to others and over-depend upon them to teach us. What
if we listened more to ourselves ~ to our deep, inner
voice ~ like this monkey had obviously done? It somehow
knew what to do to save its life, but how? Did it,
perhaps, have a store of natural wisdom? And, if so,
might we not have, too? And if we have, why do we
not use it? Is it the ‘common-sense’ we
hear about, but which is really not so common?”
So, because of the train of thoughts that this event
started in my mind, I can honestly say that “My
teacher is a monkey”. Some people have misunderstood
this, of course, and a least one monk ~ hearing this
story ~ thought I was being sarcastic about monks,
but such was/is not the case. There is no hidden mean-ing
in it; it means just what it says; but if people wish
to interpret it otherwise ~ and no doubt some will
~ let them.
One of the monkey-house monks ~ Thich Tinh Giac
~ stayed in Jetavana with me, while the other
one ~ Thich Tien Phat ~ stayed at the lower
temple. One night, I’d already gone to bed,
when Tinh Giac, who’d been studying downstairs,
called me: “Sir, sir, come quick! Con cop!
Con cop!”
Knowing his excitable nature, I said: “Oh, why
are you calling me to see frogs? It’s late and
I’m tired, and need to sleep.”
“No frog”, he said, “Tiger!
Tiger!” (I thought ‘con cop’
meant frog, when it actually meant tiger).
“Tiger? No tigers in Philippines,”
I said, but because he was so agitated, I went down
to see, and there, outside, reflected in the light
from the lamp, were the red eyes of his ‘tiger’
~ a buffalo that had got into the temple compound
during the night! We laughed so much about this; thereafter,
Tinh Giac became known as ‘Tiger Monk’!
He’d been picked up by a German ship from his
boat, so should have gone to Germany, but I spoke
with the UNHCR officer about him, and was able to
help him go to Australia instead; he was sponsored
by a temple in Perth.
By 1982, I wanted out, but decided to rebuild both
temples first so as to leave them in good condition.
But I had no funds, and wondered how I’d do
it. Tomas came to my aid, and told me to get whatever
I needed from his store and pay him later. He even
gave me one of his trucks and drivers to transport
the material, apart from much financial help; his
generosity was unlimited.
There was a professional sculptor in the Camp by the
name of Do Ky, who offered to make images
for the lower temple. I got the material he needed
and he set about it. After some weeks his work was
done, and the image of the Buddha installed on the
temple-altar, while outside, beside the pond that
someone else had built, he made a large and beautiful
image of Kwan Yin. I requested him, while he was working,
not to put his name on his sculptures, explaining
that I wanted no-one’s name in the temple, as
it wasn’t necessary for people to know who’d
done things there. He understood and agreed with me,
and so his name didn’t appear. This was his
contribution, and I’m sure many people were
inspired by it.
While I was engaged in the slow job of rebuilding
the temples ~ slow because I had to rely upon volunteers,
and there were not great numbers of these, even though
most of the refugees were Buddhists ~ I got a letter
from a Vietnamese monk in one of the Camps in Hong
Kong, asking me to help him get out of there.
Well, I had no power to do this, of course, but wrote
back, say-ing that the Camp was a good place for a
monk, and urging him to stay with his people and do
what he could for them instead of considering only
himself, but obviously, he wasn’t the kind of
monk to think of this. Let us call him Monk X.
Because I’d heard about the condition of the
Camps in HK, I also wrote the following letter to
one of the foremost HK monks:
“Philippines. 29th March
1983.
Dear Ven. Kok Kwong,
allow me to introduce myself: I am the monk in charge
of Buddhist affairs in the Philippines Refugee Processing
Center. I have been here three years, during which
time we have built two small temples for the Buddhist
Refugees.
I have had the pleasure of meeting you on two occasions
~ once in Bogor, Indonesia, in 1978, and again, in
Taipei in 1981 ~ though probably you will not remember
me.
My reason for writing to you now, Venerable, is to
ask for your assis-tance: you are well-known for your
compassion, and I am confident that you will help.
The problem is this:
I have heard, from several refugees who arrived here
from Hong Kong, that there are two Vietnamese Buddhist
monks in two separate Camps there; they are very much
in need of help since, apparently, no-one is allowed
to go in to see them. Somehow, though, it seems that
Christian missionaries are allowed inside the Camps,
and are very active trying to convert the refugees.
What a shame for our religion that no-one is allowed
to go there to minister to the needs of our co-religionists!
(Even in Thailand, where there are about 300,000 monks,
the Buddhists just sit idly back and per-mit the endless
streams of Christian missionaries to commit their
outrage against Buddhist refugees ~ buying them, and
otherwise influencing them to change their religion).
Ven., please try to help these two monks; they need
Buddhist books, Buddha-pictures and other articles
for distribution to their faithful followers; ceremonial
instruments such as a wooden-fish, gong and bell,
would be very much appreciated. I also understand
that they are personally in need of clothes. More
than anything else, though, they are in need of care
and moral support from local Buddhists. [The names
and addresses of the two monks were included].
Many Thanks and Sincere Regards
— “
There was no reply to this, but that was not unusual.
I wrote to several monks about various things since
then, and was not graced with replies. Maybe I’m
a bit old-fashioned in this, but I consider it ill-mannered
not to reply to letters of a personal na-ture. In
Asia, however, the standard seems to be different.
Any-way, I was disappointed at the non-reply of this
monk, as he had probably fled Communist oppression
in China and become a refugee himself years before.
He loved to print photos of himself in his magazine,
in the act of releasing fish, crabs, turtles, etc.,
as an act of merit. Did I expect too much to think
his compassion might extend a bit further than to
such creatures and the pages of his magazine, to refugees
like himself? He did nothing about my request, and
when I tried to see him two years later, he made an
excuse for not meeting me. So much for his compassion!
This monk was of a different nationality than the
refugees, but so what? Buddhism helps us to see beyond
such things as race and nationality. We had no control
over where we were born, and might have been born
anywhere, but we can be born in only one place per
life. There is really no reason to be proud of race
or nationality, as it is not a thing we achieved by
our own efforts; if it were a matter of choice ~ as
some reincarnationists like The-osophists
believe, who would choose to be born in countries
which suffer regularly from famine, drought, pestilence
and war? No, nationality is a consequence of being
born where we were. However, if we understand something
of Dharma, we come to look at this matter differently
than most people do, and see it in clearer perspective.
This idea is one of many that we become liberated
from as we go deeper and our consciousness expands.
Therefore, although I was born in England, and cannot
deny this, I do deny that it makes me English. I don’t
want to be English, because I found something bigger
and better than that; if other people consider me
English just because I was born in England, it’s
up to them. Of course, before anyone asks, I should
say that I cannot dis-pense with the formalities of
passports and so on, and still travel on a British
passport, which identifies me as ‘British”;
I am also a citizen of Australia now, so have an Aussie
passport, too. What I mean, however, is that I don’t
think of myself as ‘English,’ and am not
about to start thinking of myself as Australian”.
If asked where I’m from, sometimes I reply:
“When?”
“No, where are you from?” they repeat.
Again, I say, “When am I from where? ~ this
morning, yesterday, last year? When do you mean? If
you mean where I was born, I was born in England.
Since then, however, I have been to and come from
many places. But where I am really from, I don’t
know, any more than you know where you are from!”
We learn to see beyond artificial divisions to the
basic fact of our humanity. Shall we therefore restrict
our compassion to just one group of people? What kind
of compassion would that be?
The scriptures record the story of a certain monk
who was so ill and incapacitated that he could do
nothing for himself and was left lying in his own
filth by the other monks, who wouldn’t go near
him because of the stench and dirt. When the Buddha
heard of this, He called for hot water and cloths,
and went to clean up the sick monk with His own hands.
Of course, when He did so, many monks rushed to help,
but the Buddha insisted on doing the onerous job Himself,
as an example to all. He ex-plained that, since none
of them had mothers, wives or anyone else to take
care of them, they should take care of each other
when necessary, living as a community, in brotherly
love. This incident led Him to utter His famous words:
“He who serves the sick serves the Buddha”.
Unfortunately, that rarely happens these days, according
to my experience, at least.
It is important to understand the difference between
the Con-tainer and the Contents: Buddhism and the
Teachings of the Buddha. If we are satisfied with
Buddhism it is alright, of course; but we are not
and who want something more than name-and-form, it
must be said that though Buddhism is now old, tired
and travel-stained, having come a long way and endured
many ups and downs, the Teachings of the Buddha are
sufficiently intact. However, these, too, should not
be looked upon as something magical that will produce
miraculous effects just by believing or reciting them,
but should be understood and realized, for they are
a finger pointing at the moon, not the moon
itself. There are 3 levels, as it were: (1) Buddhism,
the organization, which de-serves respect for having
preserved the Contents until now; (2) Buddha-Dharma,
or the Teachings of the Buddha; and (3) Dharma itself,
realizing which, Sakyamuni became the Buddha, and
thereafter tried to point out to others. If we insist
on clinging to the Container while disregarding the
Contents and making no attempt to understand, it is
such a waste, to say the least.
One of the central elements of the Buddha’s
Way is Compas-sion, but many people obviously think
of it as just something of the scriptures ~ a word
or idea ~ and seldom apply it in their lives; we talk
a lot about it, which shows we haven’t got the
real thing. Some monks have spots burned on their
heads when they undertake ‘Bodhisattva precepts’
(some lay-people have spots burned on their arms).
Now, a Bodhisattva is someone who dedicates himself
to developing qualities which will enable him to help
others, and he does so by ~ among other things ~ self-less
service. Such a person would not seek or expect recogni-tion
for doing what he does, and would not make a show,
but do good simply because he sees it as the only
thing for him to do; at that stage, he has gone beyond
choosing between good and evil, and does good with
an undivided mind full of love and com-passion. A
person becomes a Bodhisattva not merely by talking
about compassion and ‘saving all beings’,
by burning spots on his head or taking ‘Bodhisattva
precepts,’ but by serving others and showing
compassion. Moreover, such a person wouldn’t
think of himself as a Bodhisattva, and would not even
know that he/she is one. We must be careful, therefore,
when talking about compassion and Bodhisattvas, lest
we injure ourselves spiritu-ally and set ourselves
back by casual and thoughtless words.
A certain man used to come to the temple every day
during his time in the Camp ~ a quiet, humble, but
rather sad man named Tran Cong Nam, who always
spoke politely, but never told me his story. Only
after he’d left did someone tell me that when
he had escaped from Vietnam, his two children had
drowned before his eyes, and there was nothing he
could do for them. We kept in touch by letter, he
and I, but it was only after some years when he referred
to the tragedy, that I felt free to advise him not
to blame himself, and to let go insofar as he was
able to. He ad-dressed me as ‘Father’
in his letters, although he is somewhat older than
me, and was so moved by the starfish-story in one
of my books that he used to sign off, “Your
Small Fish.”
Work on the temples went on intermittently, until
finally it was done and the opening-ceremonies over.
The temple at the top end I renamed Jetavana,
after a monastery in India where the Buddha often
stayed.
Jetavana under construction, 1982
Jetavana Completed, 1983
I didn’t leave immediately, though, as I knew
some of the Cam-bodians were waiting to take over
when I’d gone, so I remained in place. Thus
thwarted, someone ~ some people; it cannot
have been just one ~ decided to do something about
it.
My kuti, 1983
I came out of my kuti one morning before
dawn, and ran into a thin wire that someone had stretched
between two trees in the night at eye-level; I reacted
fast, however, and drew back as soon as I hit it,
so it did no damage.
Knowing I was fond of animals, they saw a way of getting
at me. Two of my dogs disappeared, and I was informed
they’d been killed and eaten; my cats were poisoned
and died in agony, and I could do nothing for them.
This was the final straw, and I said, “Okay;
I’m going now!” But, in order to protect
the Vietnamese and make sure they were not driven
from the temple, I drew up a document giving them
my kuti for their residence; the temple wasn’t
mine, so I couldn’t give them that. I gave a
copy to the Camp administration, and then I left.
After a few days in Manila, I went to Palawan again.
This time, my talks in the temple were translated
by a Catholic ~ Dr. Tuan, whose wife, Diep, also a
doctor, was a Buddhist. It must have appeared strange,
him sitting in the temple translating for me with
a crucifix around his neck, when he never went to
the church. They were an incredible couple; they’d
tried several times to escape from Vietnam, and once,
were wrecked on a barren rock where they survived
until rescued by a VC boat by living on shell-fish
and sea-birds, eaten raw! They were taken back and
jailed, but managed to escape again, and this time,
had been picked up by an American ship and brought
to the Philippines. Because of this, they could have
gone to the US early, but requested ~ not volunteered,
but requested ~ to spend an extra six months
in the Camp to serve their people. They were allowed
to do so, but were not given preferential treatment,
just the same rations and accommodation as the other
refugees. When they went to the US in mid'84, they
had only a small bag of clothes and $10 to their name.
They settled in California, and Tuan had to study
to requalify, as his papers from Vietnam were not
recognized. Diep got a job as an assistant-nurse so
as to support him, and when friends said to her, “You
were a fully-qualified doctor in your own right in
Vietnam, but now you’re only an assistant-nurse;
don’t you feel bad about this?” she replied,
“No, why should I? I’m still helping sick
people.”
During my stay in Palawan, I dreamed I saw Cambodians
in Jetavana with sand and cement, remodeling the altar
there. Back in Manila, knowing I was soon to leave
Philippines for Hong Kong and onwards, some of the
Buddhists of Manila ~ led by a nun named Biao Chin,
who had helped me so much over the previous few years
~ asked me to stay and not leave, and knowing how
I felt about Seng Guan See, offered to build me a
temple. I was touched and grateful, and thanked them
for their kindness, but said I felt I must go now,
and added that I might come back later. Then, after
booking a flight to Hong Kong, I went to Bataan again,
to find that my dream had been accurate, and the Cambodians
had indeed taken over Jetavana after I left there.
I was told how it had happened: Monk X had arrived
from Hong Kong, and not long after, began to act very
strangely, up-rooting plants and flowers and cutting
down trees in the temple-compound, until one day,
he cut down the bodhi-tree that I’d brought
as a sapling and planted there in 1980! And when the
Cambodians saw this, they became very upset, and came
run-ning in their hundreds. They might have killed
X if the Filipino marines had not timely turned up
to intervene, and then the Vietnamese had to vacate
my kuti, and the Cambodians finally got what they’d
long-wanted; Monk X had given it to them! There was
nothing I could do about it when I returned; it was
too late. He was eventually resettled in California,
and soon after getting there, disrobed and married.
Fearing that I’d come back to take over the
temple again, some Cambodians made a lot of trouble
for me, but I was impervious, and after assuring the
Vietnamese that they had my heart even if the Cambodians
had got my shirt, as it were, I left again, to prepare
to depart from the Philippines.
I considered what to say to Abbot Sui Kim before I
left Seng Guan See, and decided to say, “When
I came here five years ago, I bowed to you, because
I didn’t know you. But now that I know you,
I’m not going to bow.” I didn’t
need to do this, though, as ten days before my departure,
members of the temple youth-group asked me to give
a talk the following Sunday; I agreed, and thought
about what I would say in the meantime. On the day,
they came to me again and told me it was Sui Kim’s
80th birthday, and they were giving him a tea-party,
and asked me to attend before giving my talk. I complied,
and afterwards, went to the hall where my talk was
to be given. I didn’t expect Sui Kim to attend,
but he did, and sat in the front row. Now, I’d
already de-cided what to say, and thought, “Should
I change it because he’s here?” and decided,
“No, why should I?” So I went ahead and
said it. It included the old story of a monk who lived
in a tree. One day, a certain scholar, proud of his
studies, visited him to compare what he thought he
knew with the monk. Standing at the foot of the tree,
he called out, “Oh, Venerable Sir, I’d
like you to explain to me the essence of the Buddha’s
Teachings.”
The monk looked down and said, “Well, very kind
of you to come all this way. The essence of the Buddha’s
Teachings is this: Not to do evil, to do good, and
to purify the mind.”
“Is that all?” said the scholar,
surprised at the simplicity of the monk’s answer;
“But even a little child of eight knows
that!”
“Yes, perhaps he does,” replied the monk;
“But even an old man of eighty doesn’t
know how to practice it!”
I could have changed it to seventy, eighty-five or
any other fig-ure, but the story says eighty, and
so I said it. Sui Kim didn’t move a muscle,
but I felt good that at the end; I’d had my
say.
"If I have
seen further than others, it is because I have stood
on the shoulders of giants."
Sir Isaac Newton,
English Scientist and
Mathematician, 1642 -1727
Indeed, we owe
so much to so many. No-one achieves or does anything
by himself, but only with the help and support of
countless other people, living and dead. Realization
of this leaves no room for arrogance and feelings
of superiority.
|